I write poems to shine a light on the spaces between things. Poems exist on the border between articulating and gesturing. They introduce images and sing along to them. They don’t finish anything up.
My poetry books aren’t really “collections.” That term reminds me of little figurines locked into a curio cabinet. Instead, I aspire to have these books read like verse novellas: they pull you along with reappearing oddities, scraps that align into stories and characters who pull you along by the hand. Timber Curtain is the story of an old building and the ghosts who lived there. The Bled traces my time in Morocco and my husband’s unexpected death there.
The Stenographer’s Breakfast, my first book, is a collection of poems that follows a court stenographer as she tries to “take dictation.”
Prose is something else entirely. “If you want to communicate, use the telephone,” bellowed Richard Hugo. I write prose when what I want to say is too complicated for the phone. Here’s a book of art history. In it, I describe artists, writers and arts advocates in seventy mini-essays.
Here’s something I wrote about “Making Things and Making Things Better,” the dilemma of how artistic practice imitates or inspires the art of living a good life. And, here is “Dreaming Richard Hugo,” an essay-fiction piece about chasing down a dead poet.
Factory Hollow Press commissions a new Chapbook called I Almost Read the Books Whole. I’m instigating and serving as the writer of a documentary film, Where the House Was, about the demolition of 1634 11th Ave, home to Richard Hugo House.